Personally, I think you have to be old to understand the fascination that adults have with Old Faithful. When you're young, you look at the spot in Old Faithful Inn where it basically places a time of eruption--give or take 10-20 minutes--on this board. Now for anyone under the age of 30, the feature may be boring, especially if you've seen it every year for a majority of a young lifetime.However, old people view things differently. Joints ache and tell of storm. My dad always called the
painter's wisp of high flying clouds were a predictor of storms, and they remain something that, in my opinion, is a better prediction than any of the personalities on television. You know, the ones who sometimes make bad jokes and predict the weather. With aches and pains, old people can only view youth with envy, as children climb, jump and skip about waiting for "Old Faithful" to work the magic.
These poor individuals sit quietly in wheel chairs. The sportier ones have those speedy electric carts, some even with the long antenna and a short triangular flag at the top.
I could never figure why the antenna and flag were so important. It's not like it's a device designed by E.T. to phone home or something. It's just this strange compulsion to have something bobbing about while the aged racer zips in and out of traffic.
Maybe it's a way of his grandchildren keeping track of him.
In my case, I don't need the antenna.
"Pop Pop!" My grandson uses voice inflection to show different emotions. A deep voice is what he uses when I get impatient in a store or about drivers who seem rude to me. He doesn't like his Pop Pop adding to the chaotic sense of rage that seems to fill the environment--highways, air waves, movies and television.
A higher tone with a sense of panic is what he uses if I fall or stumble. I took a dive in the garage once. When you're old, you have this faint memory of feeling invincible. It's that sense of confidence you developed first at the age of 16 or so. And at almost 58, it now seems to have faded like the dandelions on my front lawn. The yellow bloom, even though I hate it for what it is, dries and leaves the fragile seeds that float in the air.
The day I fell in the garage found me tripping on a rug. I feel on top of an aluminum ladder, bruising my shoulder, ribs and arms. I had a lump on my head. I laughed.
My grandson found no humor in it. His voice was shrill and he sat up in the back seat of the car, after unbuckling his seatbelt. I waved to him, but it didn't make any difference. He cried out one more time.
The crash inside the house caught my Sweeties attention too. She looked into the garage, her face drawn with concern. Before I could get to my feet, she was at my side in the garage.
Now even though my mobility and my speed and even my hair color are no longer dependable, I don't see rangers running to Old Faithful's side when the geyser falls send hot water and steam into the air.
It's the upside of being an old coot, or in the words of German youth--ein alter Knacker. Regardless of the language or culture, only the Chinese seem to honor old people, but I'm lucky.
My family doesn't make toys tainted with lead and other dangerous chemicals, and we don't make bad electronic devices and other products to be cursed by the world. They do, however, revere me--like Chinese honor their aged ones--and my wife and children and grandchildren help me when I'm under the weather or when I'm awkward or when I'm even a bit crotchety and grumble about the world and those damn kids who drive their fancy cars. You know, these pieces of modern metal convenience are things, that I won't ever afford.
But honestly speaking, if I ever do get my hands on one, I'll not only drive it too fast in the neighborhood, but I'll smoke the tires too. I just hope I get one before I'm too compromised to pop the clutch on one.
I'll smile if I think some other crotchety old fart is complaining about my driving.
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